Cause of Death
by Lemon Zinger
Summary: Fate loves cruel irony. BBA


**Thank you so much Azolean for beta-ing!**

I coughed again, groaning as it hurt my chest. The pain flared in my entire body. Countless bruises and cuts adorned me. I had been beaten and tortured, my captors desperate to get some information out of me.

I had long forgotten what it was they wanted. I had forgotten it purposefully; so that I would not accidently give it away when in my despair.

How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Perhaps even months had gone by.

I was becoming more and more disoriented. I had ceased to care for myself as the time slowly moved forward. Day or night, I didn't know. The beatings became less and less intense as I became used to the blows.

I was tired. I was hungry. I was in pain.

I would die soon. I knew that all too well. The torture was becoming too much, far too much.

Better dead than alive, facing this every day I convinced myself.

Had I the strength I would have found a way to hasten this fate. I didn't want to feel the pain anymore. The weariness was also hard to bear. I hated feeling weak. I hated feeling helpless.

I had stopped fighting back. Why even waste the energy?

I had stopped eating. Why fight to stay alive?

I had stopped dreaming.

That is what scared me most. I used to dream of him, the day he would find and rescue me, brave and scared as always.

Part of me wondered where he was. He always came, whenever I had needed him. Had something happened to him? Would I join him in death when my time finally came?

A part of me hoped it was not true. I wanted the best for him, but it had been so long that I had lost hope that he would find me. It never took this long. It never had become so unbearable. I would like to think of him their waiting for me. Or safely back in Baker Street, far from danger and the pain I was experiencing.

I heard footsteps approaching the room. It was very dark, so my hearing and sense of smell had gotten stronger. I tensed, wondering if I could take another beating. I tried to move, but as a firestorm of pain engulfed me I thought better of it.

If I was to die now, it was of no matter. I would die and no longer have to withstand this miserable existence.

My entire body screamed for release. Release from everything.

A man entered, his pace hastening towards me. He had left the door open and as he kneeled down beside me I saw the shadow of a knife poised above me.

I didn't think; I simply reacted. Time slowed down as I grabbed it, twisted it and shoved it back over my shoulder, hitting him and then pulling it away.

Warm blood hit my face and the man gave a gruesome moan. His grip had loosened on the blade and I tore it from him. I rolled away from him, crying from the hurt the movement caused in my body and I managed to get to my knees, trembling as I faced him.

Terror filled me. Absolute terror. It froze me, a chill running down my spine and taking away my ability to move or speak.

"Holmes!" I finally moaned, as he collapsed on his side, shuddering in his death throes. My blow had caught his neck, just below his left ear. I had hit the carotid artery and bright red blood spurted from the wound, in time with his final heartbeats. I foolishly tried to stop it, feeling the warm liquid flowing into my hands.

Whatever pain I was experiencing was nothing in comparison to the suffering that was plain on his face. He had never deserved this. I never deserved this.

_Why!_

"I'm so sorry!" I cried ignoring the shouts from below as my captors realized something was amiss.

He looked at me, blinking in confusion. He rested his head on the cold floor and his eyes lost focus. He blinked, and then fell very still, his eyes staring, full of pain.

I cried out in horror, stunned to the core at the swiftness of the whole thing.

I heard my captors getting closer, and looked down at the knife. The knife was dripping with his precious blood. I felt a twisted smile spread across my face.

It would not take me long to join my friend.

* * *

I was suddenly awoken as water hit my face. I sputtered and shivered as my all-too vivid dream was recalled to my mind.

"Watson? Good God you gave me such a scare!" Holmes said. He was standing over my bed with a pitcher, still dripping water on me.

I could say nothing, just sat up and grabbed him, taking no heed to the pitcher that was sent shattering on the floor. I embraced him; grateful he just accepted my hug instead of protesting.

"Oh Watson, what ghosts were haunting you?" he breathed in my ear.

I could not reply, too choked up with pain and fatigue. I realized that many of the wounds that I had felt in my dream were all too real.

Once I let go, he sat next to me. The proximity was unusual for him, but I found that I needed I needed it. I leaned my head on his shoulder and he threw his arm around me.

"I couldn't even wake you. You've had a fever and have been delirious for the last five days," he said.

"I'm sorry," I breathed.

"Watson, tell me. I know I was a part of it."

"I can't," I said, choking on tears.

We lapsed into silence and he sat there, holding me. I felt tired and hot, and Holmes moved me to lie back on the pillow and fetched a cool, damp rag that he placed on my forehead.

I heard him move around for a minute and then felt him raising my head up. A glass was pressed to my lips and I found that I was very thirsty. I nearly choked because of how fast I tried to drink it.

"Take it easy, Watson," Holmes murmured. I took a couple more sips, and then leaned back.

"You should rest," Holmes said, withdrawing the glass.

"I can't… not after—" I couldn't stop the tears that came flowing down my cheeks.

"Watson, please, I need to know."

"I- I killed you, Holmes," Watson choked, his voice breaking with sorrow and angst.

* * *

I froze, forgetting even to breathe as I sat there, imagining the terror Watson had faced.

"Watson, I'm right here," I said finally. "I'm alive and well."

He didn't sleep. He sat there, staring into space all night. He looked so worn and fragile. Hardly any better than he had when we had finally rescued him from his antagonists. He had been on his way to visit my new home in Sussex. When he didn't show up within the expected time, I was instantly worried.

Finding him had been difficult. It was no simple task to follow a nearly invisible trail to a distant farmhouse. Watson had been sick and badly wounded.

It had already been a week since his rescue, and he looked no closer to recovering. His fever was rising again, after staying low for nearly a day. A blessed day that I prayed might be the start to his recovery.

Now I wasn't so sure.

So I called for the doctor again. He looked troubled as he made his report. "I don't think he's going to pull through."

That was the phrase he left me with. Then he gave me instructions, telling me there was no more anyone could do. He didn't tell me again that Watson should be in a hospital, that argument was unnecessary.

Possibly, Watson would live through the night, and I pleaded silently with fate.

I knew Watson should rest, but I needed to hear his voice, see his once-bright eyes look at me again. I woke him with a gentle shake and his eyes flickered. They were not bright. They were glossy and his face showed how much the fever had worn on him.

"Holmes?" he whispered, sounding hoarse.

"Take it easy, Watson. I'm here with you. I will always be by your side." I held his hand, staring at his face as he drifted back into his troubled sleep.

The night held no smiles as I sat with him, watching him toss and turn in his suffering. I was helpless to do anything, only mutter half-senseless prayers.

In shame, I started awake the next morning, realizing I had fallen asleep at some point. His hand was cold.

* * *

The inspector entered the house, knowing all too well what he was going to find. The detective was getting far too old to handle things like this. The maid who had only arrived back that morning after being sent away by her employer three days ago was in tears, blubbering her report to one of his assistants.

Suddenly, another inspector came running up.

"And just who are you?" the inspector asked.

"Inspector Lestrade, I knew the deceased," the other man replied.

"What do you want?"

"Jurisdiction over this case. It's the least I can do," Lestrade replied.

The other inspector nodded, happy to hand over this case. The initial reports were already horrifying. Three men, gagged and bound to a tree that stood a short walk from the house, had been found dead, each with several bullet holes. The killer had taken his time. Targeting sensitive areas to make his victims suffer before he finally executed them.

Lestrade went to the bedroom, giving the door a tap so it swung open slowly with a creak.

There they were, together to the end. Watson, pale and still from the bed, his hand held by the hand of the world's only private consulting detective, who was bleeding from the gunshot wound that had penetrated him.

Cause of death?

The need to be together.


End file.
